Accidental Assassin
by KuroKage1717
Summary: It was an accident. Something unintentional, a freak happening. The story of Sanya's life, actually, but this – this just took the cake. The dragonborn's story, with a twist or two.


A/N: I do not own Skyrim and its plot, characters, and fluffy little bunnies. But I most definitely can play with them. :)

Enjoy!

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**Accidental Assassin**

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It snowed that afternoon, huge fluffy flakes that fell straight down. There was no wind; just a frigid chill that slowly crystallized around trees and turned noses and fingers red. Sanya, dressed in a thin robe taken from a dead mage, found that he was horribly underdressed for the weather. He had wrapped the ends of the too-long sleeves around each hand, then jammed his fists under his armpits in a feeble attempt to keep the cold at bay. His toes, despite the miles upon miles of walking, had gone numb, and he feared that frostbite had set in.

Teeth chattering, he shuffled past the guards and through the open, heavy doors. The men guarding the entrance to Windhelm wore the blue of the Stormcloaks, and after giving him a brief once over, they ignored him entirely, no doubt having deemed him to be little threat to the safety of their city.

"I should have gone south," he muttered to himself. He'd been in such a hurry to get out of Whiterun, that'd he'd just picked a direction and started down the road. It had brought him here, eventually, after a horrible journey filled with wolves and bandits and a landscape that grew colder and drearier as he went.

At least here, he wouldn't be expected to go fight a dragon. He hoped. That Jarl was crazy. After he had spent all his money to hire some thug to get him through Bleak fall Barrows – great idea, _that _was: the thug ended up dying after playing the meatshield, but at least it let Sanya get out of there in one piece – but once he returned, the Jarl wanted him to go slay a dragon. A real live dragon, which happened to exhale fire in amounts that twenty destruction mages working together couldn't match.

Sanya had smiled and nodded, turned around, and walked out the door. And kept walking, straight out the gate of Whiterun, where he chose the opposite direction he's seen Irileth and her soldiers head.

A strange, bitter kind of amusement rose up then, and he found himself chuckling softly. Some grand adventure _this_ was turning out to be. Go slay a dragon? Yeah right. He wasn't stupid.

He heard the crackling before he saw it – logs stacked high in a huge metal basin, with tall orange flames that devoured them ravenously. Sanya slowed for just a second, eyes fixed upon the sight.

"Hel-_lo _ beautiful," he murmured. Then he made a beeline for the fire. Within seconds he was close as he could get without setting himself on fire, hands held out to the warmth and a delirious grin on his face. A small sigh escaped him as he could feel tingles beginning to form in his fingers. Whoever built this fire outside deserved their weight in gold.

"Don't s'pose you have coin to spare?"

Sanya started; he hadn't realized that he wasn't the first to warm up by the fire. A battered woman stood across from him, her own hands near the flames. Like he, she was poorly dressed for the cold, with only gray tatters hanging from her thin frame. Yet her cheeks were rosy, and there was a faint sparkle to her dark eyes.

She observed him for a moment, then huffed. "Don't look like you do…. Yer a miserable lad, ain't you?" Then she snickered. "Welcome to Windhelm, then. Grand place, ain't it?"

Sanya lifted his gaze. All he saw was cold stone everywhere, forming walls, buildings, and glimpses of cobblestone streets beneath drifts of snow. The place looked harsh, unforgiving, and the blue-coated guards patrolling the streets did little to help. In fact, a few of them were busy hurling verbal abuse at a poor Dunmar woman. He watched for a moment, wondering if he should help, then decided that he didn't feel like being turned into Breton pancake.

"Umm…." He wasn't sure how to respond.

The woman grinned, obviously enjoying his uncertainty. "Name's Silda. Wot's a pretty little Breton like you doing in place like this, hmm?"

Sanya cringed. Why was he here? Because he was foolish coward, that's why. He eyed his fingers. They were bright red now, and the pleasant tingling had become a prickly pain that was almost unbearable. Same thing with his toes, which gave him a small measure of relief. It meant he hadn't lost them yet. Concentrating, he took a moment to direct some Restorative energy to the affective areas, soothing away the discomfort.

"I've nowhere else to be," he finally said. Silda merely nodded, accepting his answer. Silence grew between them, punctured only by the crackling of the logs as they slowly disintegrated into ash.

"I'm Sanya," he blurted. This earned him a quick glance from her, perhaps a quick upwards tilt to one side of her mouth, but no other response.

They stayed by the fire for a long time, occasionally turning this way and that in order to warm different parts of their body. Sanya scooped up handfuls of freshly fallen snow to quench his thirst. After a while, he found himself growing bored. Silda seemed unwilling to hold any further conversation, and he didn't feel like straying too far from the fire's protection against the cold.

This led him to trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue, a game usually played by only small children. Sanya didn't care. He tilted his head way back and stuck out his tongue, wobbling as he shifted about trying to some of the falling snow. The gray hood of his mage's robe fell back, revealing a massive mess of ebony hair that hadn't seen either a comb or soap for many days.

A grumbling stomach interrupted his activities, reminding him that he had finished off the last of his dried fruit several hours ago. Sagging, he sneaked a glance at Silda. She was shaking her head while grumbling something to low for him to hear.

She wouldn't be much help. So Sanya pulled up his hood, wrapped his too-big robe about himself as snugly as he could, and prepared to find food the only way he knew how.

It proved to be rather simple. He wandered down a few streets until he found the marketplace. Teeth chattering, he paused to take a look around. The place stood quiet. Besides the merchants standing faithfully by their merchandise, only a couple of people wandered about.

_Most people have the sense to stay inside with this weather,_ Sanya thought. Well, that was good for him. And as a bonus, he couldn't spot any guards. There couldn't be a better time than this.

Doing his best to look like he had every right to be there, he sidled up to the nearest stand. An array of clothing and jewelry covered nearly every square inch of the counter, with some hanging from worn hooks on the sides. Sanya eyed a thick, woollen robe longingly, but wasn't sure if he could manage to make off with something so big and obvious. He moved on to the next, breath coming in quick, shallow pants as his nerves kicked in.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. What if he got caught?

He eyed the pastries and dried fruit and meat displayed on the next. His belly ached, rumbling weakly as it yearned for food. Fingers shaking, Sanya looked around. No one was looking at him. The food stand's vendor was over by the butcher, deep in conversation. And the clothing merchant had her nose buried deep into the rich blue silk that she carefully stitched together.

The pastries steamed a little, proving they were fresh. The thought of the sweet dough melting into his mouth nearly had him drooling.

_Go for it_, his stomach cheered.

_Don't worry about getting caught, _his mind piped up, _because hey, they feed you in prison, right?_

There was no arguing with that logic. So Sanya shuffled closer, and before he lost his nerve, snatched the nearest pastry. Immediately he turned and began to walk away. There were no shouts, no cries of alarm. Had he made it?

He walked a little faster. Passed a shivering beggar huddled in the corner, who eyed him with too-shiny eyes. Even as he moved on, he could feel those eyes watching him. It gave him shivers.

Then he reached a street intersection, and nearly collided with a guard who had just rounded the corner. They both stopped suddenly, eyeing the other. The guard, a gruff looking man with graying blond hair and huge shoulders, narrowed his eyes and sneered.

"Wot we got here, then?"

Sanya choked on the huge mouthful of pastry in his mouth, immediately lifting both hands as if he could physically ward off the Stormcloak's suspicion. But his eyes only widened in horror as he saw that he held literal fistfuls of pastries in either hand. _How did-?!_

He only remembered grabbing the one!

The guard took one look at the evidence, then bellowed angrily, "Thief! You'll pay for what you did!"

Sanya backpedaled, hurriedly swallowing the sweet bread. Around him, others were starting to take notice, turning to see what was happening. The guard drew his sword, the hiss of steel coming free from its sheath a signal to run.

Not one to ignore his cue, Sanya bolted like a frightened rabbit. He charged down one street after another, skidding around corners while trying to stuff the pastries into the sleeves of his robes. If he managed to survive this, a celebratory snack would be in order.

One of the buns fell from a sleeve, dropping away to the cold cobblestone beneath. Instantly, Sanya dug in his heels, unwilling to lose it. The long trek from Whiterun to Winterhelm had taught him any kind of food, no matter how he got it, was precious. Reaching down, he grasped the bun with icy fingers and shoved back into storage.

Heavy footsteps, punctuated by an irritated grunt of exertion had him look up. The Stormcloak guard was nearly upon him, rugged face dark with anger. "Stop, thief!" Came the bellow, and Sanya took off once more. There was no way he was going to stop just because a guy with a drawn sword told him to.

A tall wall, topped with metallic spires that looked more dangerous than ornamental blocked his path. He whirled, just in time to see the guard coming after him. Sanya froze, breath held fast in his throat. Nowhere to run now.

Except. . .

"Got you now," growled the guard, just as Sanya lowered his body and shot forward. He slipped beneath the outstretched arm reaching to grab him, brushing against the other's armored side before bursting free.

The guard yelled his rage. Sanya didn't stop, fleeing down a narrow brick passageway. Other guards would heed the first's call, and soon it would be impossible to evade them in the streets. He would have to hide. So he began shoving against doors as he passed them, hoping to find one unlocked.

Stormcloaks were collecting behind him; he could tell by their shouts of "Over here!" "He went this way!" 'Won't be long now!" And the one that made him shiver and run faster: "Die thief!"

No, he wouldn't be dying today, thank you very much. And almost as if to prove his point, the next door he pushed against creaked open beneath his weight. Without hesitation he slipped inside and shoved it closed behind him. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited.

His chest ached, his lungs struggling to suck in huge amounts of air, but he held back the urge. Instead, he kept silent, breathing shallowly, listening. Other than faint cries, muffled by the wooden door, he heard nothing else.

Then, a child's voice, softly crooning:

_"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me; for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."_


End file.
